


Supernova

by laratoncita



Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, Drug Dealing, Dysfunctional Family, Gangs, Gen, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Linear Narrative, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: Ester Diaz is a lot of things.





	Supernova

**Author's Note:**

> in my defense. this fandom clearly needs more diaz sister fics. [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/BswJ6aSg7xi/?igshid=r5uz7xs8np3v) is what ester looks like :)

Oscar finds her at Solana Suarez’s place. Solana is an absolute skank; stole Ester’s boyfriend freshman year and didn’t let anyone forget it until he got caught with one of the damas at her quince. Several years removed from that, and now that Ester’s dating Brian Ordoñez, who plays baseball at UCLA, she’s a lot more willing to play nice. Normally Ester would ignore her invitation to party. She gets her fill being dragged along with Diana and Cleo to whatever celebration they’ve decided to crash any a given weekend.

Cleo’s big sister just had a baby, though, so her folks drove out to Anaheim for the weekend to see them, and Diana’s running around with her boyfriend. On the surface, Ester likes him just fine. The issue is that he’s a Prophet, and no slouch, either, so it’s better that she not interact with him at all. Girls don’t have much role in what either of Freeridge’s gangs get up to, but she’s a Diaz, so she doesn’t have the luxury of pretending it won’t touch her. Not even now, with a barely-stable truce between them.

To avoid thinking about that truce, though, she takes more shots than she can keep track of. Gets her tolerance from her deadbeat father, not that Ester has any idea what he’s up to these days. She hopes he’s rotting in a cell somewhere. Lets Solana drag her around like they’re actually friends, instead, smiles when there’s a lull in conversation that she was supposed to fill and then goes hunting for another drink. Oscar finds her in the kitchen.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he says, appearing behind her while she concentrates on pouring some more shitty Jose Cuervo into a red solo cup. When she turns she stays clutching the bottle and her drink to her chest, which probably pisses him off. She can’t make out his face too clearly, even if he is standing close enough to reach out and lean on. She doesn’t do that, of course. Drunk as she is, she’s not in the mood to see him, not with how bad their last meeting went.

“Pouring myself a drink,” she says, carefully, like that’s all it’ll take to make him lose it this time. She doesn’t care what Oscar thinks about her drinking. What Ester cares about is whether or not he’s going to try and drag her home, like he does every time he remembers he has a sister to take care of, too. It was his favorite pastime before they locked him up, and probably she deserved it, considering she wasn't even fourteen back then. She got away with a lot less than Cesar did, but that’s mostly because she’s a girl, she thinks. That might have been over four years ago, but it still pisses her off.

She’s definitely not remembering the last time she saw him. Isn’t thinking of how he sounded like he was really going to whoop her ass for once. She’s never been afraid of him. Doesn’t matter how close it’s gotten, recently. She’s still mad at him. That’s what’s important here.

“This what you do for fun now, jefa?” he says, and if Ester didn’t know any better she’d think he was disgusted with her.

“Don’t call me that,” she says instead of answering, “ _clearly_ you don’t give a fuck about what I think.”

“Watch your mouth,” he says, like his is any better, “I’m not one of your hoodrat friends. You wanna act like that, try someone else.”

She doesn’t tell him she thinks he ain’t shit, but it’s a near thing. Says, instead, her words not slurred but bubbling up slowly, “I don’t talk any worse than you do.”

“I’m a Santo, nena,” he says. “You’re just a kid.”

“I’m eighteen,” she says, “I’m grown.” He missed her birthday again.

“No, you’re not,” he says, shaking his head. He’s a little blurry. Long-sleeved shirt on, a bit too big on him. Khaki shorts with the socks up. Cesar still dresses like that, too. She catches glimpses of him at school, drags him to Diana’s place sometimes so she can do his laundry while he takes a real shower. She’s been staying there full-time since school started up in August. After they jumped Cesar in. Oscar’s been trying to get her to come home ever since. He says to her, “You’re a _kid_. Grown folks don’t act like you.”

“Act like _what_ ,” she says, “don’t you be getting drunk like this with your _Santos_? You been like this forever.”

“I been taking care of _you_ forever,” he says, “what you smoking, huh, that you don’t remember that?”

“If I was smoking anything one’a your buddies woulda sold it to me,” she snaps. Finally puts her cup and the bottle down on the counter next to her. Crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against it, glaring at Oscar best as she can in this state. She’s aware she probably isn’t that threatening, the same height as Cesar without any of the shoulders. Doesn’t matter. She’s pissed off, like usual, and she wants Oscar to remember that it’s his fault. “Why you here, huh? Got tired of being a shit parent to one kid, figured you’d look for the other?”

His jaw clenches. Does that teeth thing that never fails to make her madder.

“Watch your mouth,” he says again, voice dropping. It makes her straighten up. He sounds so much like their father when he does that it’s enough to make her sick—then again, that might be because of all that tequila she’s been drinking.

Ester likes to think she’s a good liar. She watches Oscar, doesn’t manage to suppress a flinch when he moves past her to pour himself a glass of water. He takes a sip, still staring out over the sink, and she takes in the cut of his silhouette. He looks like their father. She feels like she’s in the Twilight Zone. Can almost remember their parents having a similar conversation, their mother hopped up on whatever she could get her hands on and their father mad like always. She gets her temper from him, too. All the ugly parts of her, that’s from their dad. She wishes he’d taken that shit with him when left.

“Here,” Oscar says, and holds his glass of water out to her. She blinks. Looks from his hand to his face a few times, tries to will it to make sense. He scowls. “How much you had to drink?”

“A few shots,” she says, finally taking the water from him. She sips. It’s lukewarm on her tongue, and she has the overwhelming urge to pee, suddenly. Oscar would just follow her, though, maybe embarrass her by assuming she was trying to climb out of a window. She did that once over the summer, while she was at Diana’s place, trying to avoid him after he got back from the joint.

Cesar missed him like he missed air, probably. Couldn’t remember the worse of the worst, when their father was still around and the Santos were at their peak. Ester could. She wasn’t about to live that again, and with Oscar back she figured shit would hit the fan sooner rather than later. Cesar wouldn’t leave with her, which made it worse when she was proven right. A fifteen year old dead at her own quinceañera. Only in Freeridge.

“Don’t look like just a few shots,” he says, unimpressed. She avoids his gaze best as she can, slowly drinking until the cup is empty and then Oscar takes it from her. He even washes it. A tiredness washes over her. She misses her bed—not the one at their house, old and ratty and smelling like chlorine no matter how much air freshener she sprayed. The little futon she has at Diana’s place. That’s her bed now. She thinks of this even as she remembers being younger, maybe seven or eight, sneaking into Cesar and Oscar’s shared room during a thunderstorm.

Oscar used to protect them. She’s allowed to be mad about it.

“Why are you here, Oscar,” she says, finally. She sounds as tired as she feels.

“You should come home,” he tells her, like always, and even more of her energy fades.

“I don’t have a home,” she says, “just like Cesar.” Oscar flinches. She continues, “If he’s got nowhere to go then I have nowhere to go.”

“He’s probably crashing with his little friends,” Oscar says, voice harsh, “like you. And I didn’t kick _you_ out. You have a house.”

“I have a shitty mattress in a crack den,” she says. She plays with her hair, squints at the ends like her vision’s clear enough to decide whether or not she needs a trim. “’Sides, you really want me by all them Santos now that I’m legal?”

“I don’t keep that shit in the house,” he says, and when she looks at him he looks frustrated. More like her brother. “And they know better than to say anything to you.”

“You really believe that?” she says, “You were gone four years. I been looking like this for a while, G. Plenty of them have said shit when Adrian wasn’t around.”

He squares his shoulders. “Who?” he demands. “I’ll deal with them.”

“Don’t,” she says, and wraps her arms around herself. “Oscar. That’s just what being a girl is like. Not even in Freeridge. Everywhere.”

“I’m not gonna have some assholes being the reason you don’t come home.”

“They’re not the only reason,” she says, flat. He really thinks she forgot, seems like. “You think I wanna live my life the way you do? Why the fuck am I gonna go home when we’re one call away from a raid?”

“Nobody’s getting arrested,” he says. He’s got one hand against the sink, still, turned so he can face her even though she’s doing her best to stare out at the rest of the kitchen. Tries not to look at him from the corner of her eye; makes him look like someone he doesn’t want to be and has been trouble not turning into, besides.

“I don’t wanna live with you,” she says, finally. She hasn’t said that out loud before. Runs off whenever she has a spare minute, sure, but truthfully? She hasn’t even admitted it to herself. When he got released he went looking for her, found her at Diana’s. Diana, who he doesn’t like at all and who braced herself across the front door trying to give Ester enough time to escape through the bathroom. Oscar has tracked her down at work and had to deal with her boss kicking him out. He comes to find her when she’s meeting with teachers after class. He has eyes everywhere and Ester’s always trying to find a blind spot.

Going home would make none of it worth it. When she looks at him he seems clear for the first time all night. He’s staring at her like doesn’t recognize her. Like she actually hurt his feelings for once. Funny, that she never has before.

As fast as the expression settles on him, though, it’s gone. Face set like he’s got something to prove. She tries to move but he’s faster, steps into her space and grips her by her elbows. Like last time all over again.

“I’m not giving you a choice,” he tells her, voice low, fronting like always, “you might think you’re grown but you’re _my_ responsibility, sabes? How you think it feels, huh, to have you out running ‘round like some salvaje?”

“I’m _not_ your responsibility,” she tells him, trying to pull out of his grip and finding herself unable to. She’s got nowhere to go. She doesn’t feel drunk anymore, but not even that gives her the strength to get away from Oscar. They play this game too often lately. “Haven’t been in months—years, actually. D’you think you was gonna come home and find me thirteen still? I’m not afraid of you.” She nearly spits it in his face. Says again, just for good measure, “I’m not afraid of you, and I never was, so you can’t come in here like you the boss and I’m some Santo bitch.”

He opens his mouth—

“Are you…alright?”

He freezes. Lets go of her and takes a step back. There’s a mousy-looking girl standing in the entrance of the kitchen. She looks terrified. Ester realizes what it must look like—some drunk girl trapped between a counter and a man, one with a shaved head, obviously stronger than her. She feels sick, suddenly. Impressed, even. She’s always known girls are brave but sometimes the reminders catch her off guard.

Ester says, “He’s my brother,” and looks at Oscar. Sees him like this stranger might see him, the tattoos and the scowl erasing anything that he might’ve done for her and Cesar when they were kids. She says, “He’s leaving. Right now.”

He shakes his head. Almost fakes a laugh, straightening up like he’s actually going to listen to her for once. Says, “You’re a Diaz. You can’t pretend you’re someone else.”

Turns and walks out of the kitchen like it was nothing, him showing up, the girl stepping to the side like he’s even close to brushing against her. The front door slams shut—for all the noise, it’s louder than anything Ester’s heard all day. The girl comes close; she looks worried sick now. Less scared. All for some stranger she found in a kitchen. Funny.

She says, “Are you okay?”

Ester says nothing. Turns and throws up in the sink, instead.

* * *

No one was more excited to have a baby brother than Oscar, but Ester was a close second.

She remembers the day they brought Cesar home clearly. Doesn’t remember much about what her parents were saying or doing or even dressed in, but she remembers his squished little face perfectly. It’s her first real memory, and one of the only one’s from childhood that aren’t fuzzy.

He was so tiny. All of them were, really, but Cesar especially. Oscar got to hold him first, maybe because he’s the oldest or because he asked or because their parents didn’t care. Doesn’t really matter. Ester remembers sitting next to Oscar on the couch, Cesar nestled into his arms and fast asleep. She remembers the flat little noise, the wispy eyelashes. How she reached out to stroke his cheek, so carefully that not even Oscar could use it as an excuse to reprimand her. His skin was so soft, his breathing so gentle.

It’s hard to reconcile the memory of him—tiny, helpless, at their parents’ mercy like she and Oscar were—with what he looks like today, leaning up against the doorway while Ester stares at him in horror. Both his eyes are swelling, and there are scrapes on his face like someone dragged him through gravel. He looks like nothing’s ever hurt this bad before, and it’s probably true.

“What _happened_ ,” Ester says, even as she reaches out to grab him. Ends up taking most of his weight, his arm over her shoulder, and she wonders at how big he’s gotten in the past year or two, all of it happening without her noticing. He’s got blood on his face but she doesn’t see any on his clothes, so he can’t be hurt _too_ badly, but it’s got her teeth on edge, seeing her baby brother bruised up and barely able to stand.

Diana’s mom isn’t home; isn’t usually, works two full-time jobs at two different McDonald’s to pay for the house and to take care of herself and Diana. Since Ester’s moved in she’s been paying the water bill, not because she was asked to but because she knows the score. Buys her own groceries, too, just to make sure she’s not overstepping her welcome, even if she’s sleeping on a futon that isn’t all that comfortable, wedged into a tiny room at the very back of the house.

That girl—Olivia, that was her name—she’s only been dead a few days. Ester wasn’t at the party when it happened. Wasn’t her friend, first of all, and Geny Martinez don’t like her much ever since she and Mario dated for two weeks in middle school. Besides, Brian was home that weekend and they wanted to get some personal time in before he left to finish off his first quarter at UCLA. Ester has priorities.

Then again, Cesar should be her first one. Maybe if she hadn’t left he wouldn’t have gotten in trouble like he did. She should have sucked it up and stayed at home so she could’ve kept a better eye on him, kept Oscar from getting him involved in shit nobody should be doing, let alone a fourteen year old. Maybe she should have gotten them both out of there over the summer, instead of lingering around the house like a ghost, disappearing when Oscar was around and leaving Cesar behind in the process.

Maybe this is her fault, her brother bloody and bruised and heavy in her arms like he’s never been before.

She sits him in the bathroom, where the light is best. Diana’s out with her boyfriend, Stephan, like always, and Ester was doing homework to make up for all she didn’t get done over the weekend. She tried tracking down Cesar when the news got to her, but nobody she tried calling—Cesar, the Martinez house, even Oscar—answered. Stayed up half the night, anxious as hell, while Brian slept next to her, perfectly at ease. She almost woke him up just to start an argument, ended up sitting in the kitchen until the sun came up, Diana’s mother patting her head distractedly as she got ready for work.

Wasn’t until Diana came stumbling into the house an hour after her mother left that Ester got the news in full. Kept calling Cesar until her phone died, thinking of Ruby bleeding out in his backyard and that Olivia girl dead. She didn’t bother asking how Diana knew. What was the point?

This is the first she’s seen Cesar since it went down. Remembers seeing him a few days beforehand, a little jittery but otherwise no worse for wear. She had taken his face in her hands like her mother used to, when she was in that sweet spot of a high that made her pliant and interested in her kids again. She remembers shaking him a little.

“You got anything you wanna share with the class, baby?” she asked him, and he just grinned at her. She remembers hugging him goodbye and thinking about how big he’d gotten. It feels like the truth and like a lie, now, as she cleans his face up best she can, rubbing away the blood and then dabbing iodine on after. He’s got tears in his eyes, and every now and then one slips down his cheek.

Like she did the week before, she takes his face in her hands. Wipes the tears away.

“You look younger like this,” she says, the silence overwhelming, rubbing a palm over his buzzed head. “Like when we were little, and you wanted to look like Oscar.”

Cesar flinches. Something heavy settles in her stomach.

“Cesar,” she says, “baby, what happened?”

He shakes his head. Clenches his jaw, looks like Oscar when he does that and like—Ester stops the thought in its tracks. He closes his eyes and more tears fall, and she moves her hands to his shoulders instead.

“Should I look at your ribs?”

“I don’t think they’re broken,” he says, but lets her press over his shirt anyway. He feels hot, even through the fabric, and she finds a spare sheet for him, puts it into the freezer in place of the vegetables—carrots and peas, a new bag she’s only just bought—she grabs, knowing that if he manages to get any sleep tonight he’s going to need something to soothe the aches. When she comes back to the kitchen he’s staring off into space, though whether it’s from exhaustion or pain is anyone’s guess. It’s not terribly late, but it’s been dark outside for a while.

She takes his hand in hers and curls his fingers over the frozen vegetables, asks, “You tired?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice catching. She strokes over his eyebrow with a thumb, then tucks his head against her chest and just holds him, best as she can, hunched over him in the bathroom. He trembles in her arms, his breathing harsh.

“I gotchu, baby,” she says, and lets him cry against her as long as he needs to. Eventually she gets him to her room, and she tucks him underneath the old quilt she’s been using only after he convinces her he’s cold. She sits down on the floor next to him and strokes his face, the lights all off like he can’t stand to look at anything.

“I fucked up, Ester,” he says. She says nothing. Rubs his eyebrow again, waits for him to keep talking. When he breathes it seems loud. “I got her killed.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.” His voice breaks. “I was supposed to take care of Latrelle.” Ester suppresses a shiver. She knows what that means. “I said I did. He came after me. It’s my fault that Ruby…and Olivia…”

“It’s not your fault.” Ester believes it. She believes it with every fiber of her being, because her baby brother isn’t a killer, and nothing will ever make him one. Except for maybe Oscar.

Cesar says nothing for a long moment. Long enough that Ester lets herself hope he’s fallen asleep. He brings up a hand, wraps his fingers around her wrist. Pulls her hand down, so that it’s covering part of his face.

“Oscar said he had to,” he whispers. “That they can’t risk it, trying to protect me. I didn’t know where else to go. It happened so fast but—but it went on forever.”

She exhales slowly. Thinks she might be shaking but can’t tell, the way Cesar’s clutching her hand so tightly. Wishes he had let her try and rub away some of the bruises he must be hiding. Tries to banish the image of him at the mercy of a bunch of Santos. She says, voice shaking, “Did he do it?”

“He watched,” Cesar says, and tears slide between her skin and his. She swallows, uneasy. Something like horror and fear and rage pumping through her veins.

“I gotchu, baby,” she says again, because there’s nothing else to say, and stays up all night watching Cesar in the dark, his fingers curled around hers.

* * *

She waits until it’s light out to go to sleep. Curls up on the floor next to him, his bloody face imprinted on her eyelids even in her dreams. Jerks awake when Cesar tries to step over her. She stares at him.

“Bathroom,” he says, and disappears. She gets up then, too, even if she’s only had a few hours of sleep. She’s in the same clothes she was in yesterday, pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt before heading out to the kitchen.

Diana’s looking between the freezer and the bedsheets in her hand, and Ester rubs her face.

“Sorry,” she says, “I forgot I put that there.”

“Sure,” says Diana, raising an eyebrow. Her hair’s pulled into a ponytail, curls falling over her eyes and down her neck anyway, still in the oversized t-shirt she wears as pajamas.

Ester wonders if she should tell Diana that Cesar is there. Stephan is a Prophet. They’ve been friends since middle school. Is that enough to trust her? It should be. Fucking Freeridge.

“Cesar is here,” she says finally, and Diana drops the sheet. Her eyes go big.

“Like right now?”

“He’s out,” she says, dropping her voice. “Showed up last night, covered in blood. I had to almost carry him, y’know? I’m surprised he don’t have a concussion.”

“Ester,” Diana says, looking guilty, “you know he can’t stay here. _You_ staying here ain’t a good idea as is.”

Ester saw it coming but it still hurts. Says, “I know. I couldn’t just make him leave.”

“God no,” Diana says, “no, if he _needs_ to stay here for a day or two, girl, I don’t care. But any longer…if Stephan…”

“I know,” she says. Bites her lip. “Is Latrelle…”

“I don’t know shit,” Diana says, and reaches out to Ester. Serious like she rarely is. The freezer door is still open. “And neither do you. Cesar wasn’t here. You haven’t seen him in days. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says. Diana looks like she wants to say something else but just shakes her head. Closes the freezer door, says, “I’ll be upstairs,” and leaves her in the kitchen alone.

When Cesar walks in she’s got eggs cooking. Oscar’s the better cook out of the two of them, but four years with Adrian as their primary caregiver means she did most of the cooking. She’s not as good at it, but, well. There’s a reason Oscar wanted to be a chef.

Just thinking about him makes her want to scream. The thought of him watching while they beat Cesar senseless—worse, still, that this is the second time he’s gotten his shit handed to him like that. And for what? Tensions between the Prophets and Santos are as high as ever. Diana’s intel is from the Prophets, and this is the first that Ester’s gotten ahold of either of her brothers since before the shooting. God, she’s supposed to be at school right now, too.

“Here,” she says, handing Cesar a wooden spoon. He looks confused. “Keep it from burning, Cesar,” she says, exasperated but in a good way, “I need to call us out of school.”

“They haven’t figured out it’s you yet?”

“Nope,” she says, and flounces back to her room, where her phone is surprisingly not dead. Comes back once she’s finished and has brushed her teeth, finds Cesar plating scrambled eggs for them and buttering toast. He sprinkles a little sugar over each slice, like they used to when they were kids. Used to be their dinner, sometimes, when no one had money for groceries. Stale bread makes good toast, and packets of sugar tucked into drawers go a long way.

There’s nothing but the sound of clinking silverware for several minutes, both of them drinking orange juice. Cesar keeps his head down, trying to avoid Ester’s gaze. For her part, she can’t help but stare. The swelling’s gone down a bit, but his eyes are still bruised, tender-looking and sad. The iodine’s smeared over his hairline, where he must have missed a few spots when he washed his face. She wants to wrap him up and tuck him in her pocket, or something. Anything to keep him safe. Even if it feels too late.

She shouldn’t have left home. Fuck, _Oscar_ should’ve listened to her when she said Adrian and Chucho were full of shit. She should have fought harder, or argued better, or flat out refused to let him do that to Cesar. What was he going to do, hit her? She took enough from their father to withstand most shit a Santo could throw her way. Managed just fine when one of them would get handsy while Adrian had his back turned. She should have just—

Ester’s going to make up for that today. She puts her fork down. It’s not even ten yet.

“You want more?” she asks Cesar, and he shakes his head. He’s not finished eating yet, but she leaves what little is left in the pan there for him, washes her dishes and then wipes down the stove for good measure. She looks at him, hunched over himself, holding himself like everything still hurts. She might not be able to fix this, but she’s going to get some answers, and she’s going to make herself feel better in the process. “Don’t go anywhere,” she tells him, “I have to go do something. My laptop password’s your name and birthday.”

He blinks. “No one’s guessed that?”

“It’s Cesarito,” she says, and smiles a little when he makes a face. “I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

When she walks past him he catches her by her sleeve. He looks worried.

“You’ll be careful, right?” he asks, and she rubs a hand over his fuzzy head again.

“I always am,” she says, and drives herself over to the house she once called home.

She shouldn’t be surprised to see Oscar up, but ever since he got back he’s been late to rise. Maybe it was jail that made him that way, or maybe the fact that she and Cesar don’t need him to take care of them the way he used to. Maybe he’s just a fucking bum. She can feel her expression twist into something ugly the second she climbs out of her shitty car. Ester’s lucky she got it to even start, stays kissing the rosary that hangs over her mirror every time it does. She bought if off some Santo, which was her first mistake.

Chucho’s out there, too, with a couple others, and he greets her with a, “Girl, where the fuck you been?” like he wasn’t turning a blind eye to his buddies groping her when she was sixteen. She’ll deal with him next.

“Fuck you, Chucho,” she says as she heads up the front walkway.

“Oh, she mad, huh,” someone else says, and Oscar’s stupid ass has the audacity to laugh. When he looks at her she sees red.

“What’s wrong,” he starts to ask her, still grinning, and then she pops him, once, right in the jaw.

Practically knocks him over. Probably because he wasn’t expecting it, but when he stumbles she doesn’t stop. Lands hits on his back and arms and then his chest, when he straightens up again, arms coming up to grab at her.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she shouts, still trying to hit him. He yanks her close by her wrist, so she starts scratching at whatever part of him she can reach with her free hand. He’s in a t-shirt, unfortunately, so she can’t hurt him as badly as she really wants to. Part of her wonders what made her turn out this way.

At least two people are laughing. If she finds out it’s Chucho she’s going to gouge his eyes out. She manages to smack Oscar one last time before he gets both wrists in one hand, his other arm going around her waist to better drag her into the house.

“Let go,” she snaps, even as she catches sight of the Santos laughing. She kicks out, knocking over an empty chair, and then Oscar hoists her up and carries her into the living room. Throws her on the couch none too gently, her shin banging against the coffee table. “Fuck you.”

“I’m not about to fucking play witchu,” he says, sounding pissed. She scrambles up to her feet. Back in the day, when their dad was around, that tone meant the belt was coming out. He looks furious. “The fuck you doing?”

“Me?” she shouts, and he winces. She never raises her voice like that. Something about it makes her feel good. “The fuck you mean, what am _I_ doing? Muthafucker, you think I don’t know what you did to Cesar? What your _Santos_ did to him? You’re lucky he’s not dead!”

“ _I’m_ lucky?” Oscar says, stepping close to her, and she gulps. The expression on his face is—it’s her mother all the way through. The bitter anger. Something like fury. When he speaks, though, it’s like her father is standing in front of her. Talking to her, voice pitched low. Either way, this isn’t Oscar. “You have any idea what I’ve been doing these last few days? Cuchillos wanted a bullet in his head.”

He taps his own temple, like he needs to drive the point home. A wave of nausea rolls over her, thinking of Cesar dead in a ditch somewhere, like any other Freeridge gangbanger.

“So we DP’d him, so what? He’s not cut out for this life.” His lip curls up like that’s a bad thing.

“You muthafucker,” she says again, flinching violently when Oscar takes her by the elbows again. “You can’t—”

“Can’t _what_?” he hisses, “nena, this is _my_ house. You’re _my_ responsibility, you ain’t eighteen for another few days. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to you.”

Ester stiffens. She’s heard that before. She’s heard that thrown at all three of them, at their mom, even, for whatever reason her old man wanted to use that day. It makes her blood freeze, makes her feel like she’s going to pass out or puke or something else horribly embarrassing. Oscar’s never scared her but this—

It’s not Oscar.

“I’m not mom,” she says, her voice scary-soft, and Oscar lets go of her. She says, again, always a broken record around Oscar, “I’m not mom. You can’t treat me like this,” and pushes out of his grip, climbs over the couch to get away from him. His expression twists into something that might be regret. Like he didn’t realize what he said, or what it meant, or who used to say it.

“You’re just another Santo, now, aren’t you,” Ester says, and her voice cracks. She isn’t even embarrassed about it.

Oscar doesn’t bother trying to stop her when she leaves. Maybe that’s what hurts most.

* * *

The first time they arrested Oscar, he didn’t have to serve any time. He was barely seventeen, and even though they charged him as an adult, California had one of those rules about first-timers. Didn’t matter that it was a felony. He had to take some classes, Ester thinks, and there might have been a probation period, but he didn’t go nowhere. She remembers it being one of the few things to get their mother’s attention.

“Desgraciado,” she said, looking pale and thin and _dangerous_ , dangerous like she never had before. Even now, when Ester thinks of her mother, she remembers her high out of her mind. Those few moments that were exceptions—whether they were soft or not, Penelope Diaz a woman of many demons—they don’t really stick out. Something like too little, too late. And really, as far as Ester’s concerned, they were never, ever enough.

“What, ma,” Oscar said, sitting at the table with Ester and Cesar across from him, having made them all dinner after court. It was right after Ester’s eleventh birthday, she’s pretty sure. She can’t remember what they were eating. Probably pasta and chicken, a staple that got the job done. Oscar used to experiment with sauces and marinades best as he could, back when their mother used all the money he made on whatever it was she was shooting up with.

Cesar looks most like their mother, but Ester’s always been the one to get comments about it. She was real pale, and it wasn’t just because she stayed inside all day getting high. Hazel eyes, usually cloudy, but that day they were bright, her whole face pulled into a scowl. She was the most expressive out of all of them, even if it was easy to forget. Oscar only looks like her when he’s angry.

She remembers her pacing around the kitchen like a caged animal, ignoring Cesar when he asked her if she was going to eat with them. She kept shaking her head, wringing her hands now and then. Eventually Oscar lost interest and nudged Ester’s foot with his own.

“You gonna eat, jefa?” he asked, and looked satisfied when she nodded and began to finally eat. Their mother kept circling, long enough that when she finally spoke again it made Ester jump. Oscar barely reacted, getting up to put his plate in the sink and start cleaning the rest of the kitchen.

“Me oyes?” she said. She was in a ratty t-shirt, sweatpants that barely reached her ankle. “Oscar. Listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” he said, sounding bored. “Whatchu talking about?”

“Don’t talk back,” she snapped, and when Ester looked at her from the corner of her eye she could see that she was pulling her own hair. “You think I don’t know? You think I’m stupid?”

“I didn’t say nothing,” Oscar said, finally turning to look at her. He was tall by that age already. Not as big across the shoulders as he would get while locked up, but their mother was a thin, fragile looking woman, even if she wasn’t much taller than Ester will end up being.

“You’re just like your father,” she spat, and Oscar’s jaw went tight. “What did they catch you doing, huh? Dealing, eh, like the rest of them Santos? Is that what you’re gonna do with your life?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar said. Then, to Ester, “Jefa, if you’re done wash your plate.”

Ester got up slowly. Her mother said, “What’s gonna happen, Oscar, when someone you pissed off viene a buscarte? Your brother and sister live here. Your _mother_ lives here.”

“I know that,” he said, jaw tight, voice dropping, “who you think takes care of them, ma?”

“There you go,” she said, throwing her hands up. Her eyes were wild, when Ester turned away from the sink to look at her. “Acting like your fucking father. Always thought he was el mero mero, like we wasn’t living in this absolute shithole.”

“Jefa,” Oscar said, not taking his eyes off their mother, “Lil’ Spooky. You do your homework yet?”

“I don’t have any,” Cesar said, still staring at his plate.

“ _Lil’ Spooky_?” their mother said, and her voice veered upwards, like a scream. “Lil’ Spooky, eh, is that what you’re calling him now? Y tú que, you _Spooky_ , huh? Who you scaring, niño, ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t me.”

“Go to your rooms,” Oscar said, and Ester grabbed Cesar’s hand. Pushed him towards his and Oscar’s bedroom as she strained to listen to the rest of the argument.

“You’re just like your father,” their mother shouted. “Like you the shit, huh, like you doing _me_ a favor.”

“Who you think is raising those kids? Is it you? This the first time I seen you sober in weeks, sabes—”

“Don’t fucking raise your voice at me, Oscar, que soy tu madre—”

“You sure as hell don’t act like one—” The sound of a hand meeting someone’s face.

Ester, lingering outside her door, exhaled slowly.

“I don’t want you dragging them into your shit,” Penelope Diaz said. Her voice was shaking. “You see me, Oscar? You see what that shit’s done to me? You on thin ice, mijo.”

Then Oscar, his voice soft. Quiet in a scary way. Ester could almost understand why they called him Spooky. “I know, ma.”

* * *

Ester’s got her fingers set to the pulse of Freeridge High School’s gossip, which means she knows exactly when it becomes news that Cesar’s been jumped in. Only Oscar would think giving the kid a ride to school is a good idea.

It’s not the only rumor she hears, not about Cesar. The first one was less a rumor and more a furious stream of consciousness from Ruby Martinez, who showed up sometime in June at her job—Home Depot. She deals with the greenhouse. Dreams of a big ass garden, one day, when she owns her own house out in Beverly Hills, maybe, or across the country. Somewhere where Freeridge is just a memory, or something like a dream.

“Did you hear?” Ruby says, looking flustered and irritated and out-of-sorts as ever. She likes Ruby just fine. Thinks he’s funny, sometimes, even if he talks too much. Maybe it’s because her and Mario are cool with each other, not like he is with Oscar, but still friendly. She’s friends with his girl—ex-girl—whatever they are. Doesn’t even mind that their mom don’t like her.

“Hear what,” she says, because Ruby’s prone to theatrics and she needs to rearrange the orchid display. Once caught Geny tossing a plant out after it had stopped flowering and nearly lost it, took it home and had it blooming again within six months. She’s in and out of the house too often to really check on it, now that Oscar’s home, but she’s pretty sure it’s still doing alright.

Ruby swallows. Ester doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look so indignant.

“He said—he said some shit about Monse,” he says, finally, and Ester blinks. “ _Completely_ out of pocket, y’know, like, incredibly misogynistic, and I _know_ that as someone raised by a, um, by you, of course, that isn’t—that isn’t something he would say. Normally. One would think. I mean.”

Ester stares at him. He stares back.

“What did he say,” she says, slowly, and when he repeats it, he takes a step back, her expression transforming into something savage, she’s sure. “ _What_.”

“I know!” he shouts, and then flinches. Looks around like he might need to make a run for it. He comes a little closer, like he’s got a secret to share. “I don’t know _what_ Spooky—”

“Don’t call him that,” she says flatly, and rolls her eyes. “Oscar’s on probation, he can’t be doing shit right now.”

Ruby raises his eyebrows. “Is that why there’s always a bunch of shirtless Santos on your lawn now?”

She scowls. She hates all of them, even the ones she’s related to. Says, “Fine. Was that all you came to say?”

“Are you gonna do anything about it? I know you don’t really stay there anymore…”

“That’s my business,” she says, sharp. Looks at the potted orchid in her hands—a dancing lady, real pretty. She wishes she had a collection of all kinds of them. Ruby’s still looking at her. She raises a single eyebrow at him, and finally his gaze skitters off to the side. “See you later, Ruby.”

“But—”

“I’m at _work_ ,” she says, “so unless you gotta question about flowers and shit, you gotta go.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, clearly mocking her, and doesn’t even look cowed when she glares at him. “But don’t expect me and Jamal to just—let him say that shit about Monse, alright? He knows already but. Don’t wonder, when you see Cesar hanging out with the Santos instead of us.”

He walks off in a huff. Ester gets back to work.

Climbs into her car, after, and drives home like she hasn’t in days. Been at Cleo’s, this week, since she lives closer to Home Depot and Diana and her mom have been arguing over heading to Puerto Rico to visit her dad’s family. He died a few years back and they haven’t been to visit since. Lots of things have changed since then. Cleo’s got both parents, at least, even if neither of them have papers and her older sister ran off to Anaheim with her boyfriend soon as she could. They’re good people, regardless, even if they saddled their youngest with a name like Cleofilas.

She hates that Ruby’s right about there always being a shirtless Santo or two on the lawn. Today it’s Adrian, kicking it with Cesar and Santi Guerrero, who she can’t stand. It’s maybe 4:30; she was hoping she wouldn’t have to deal with Oscar, but that means she has to wonder what he’s doing, and whether it’s something he’s going to have to lie about when his PO asks.

Santi whistles at her when she walks up to them, and she gives him the finger. Says to Adrian, “Whatchu doing back here already?”

“It’s summer, prima,” he says, grinning up at her, clearly stoned, “fuck else is there to do?”

“You could get a fucking job, you bum,” she says, and then snaps her fingers at Cesar. “Tú. Kitchen. Now.”

He blinks at her once and then leans back, a practiced pose. Squares his shoulders like he’s Santi or something, trying to put on a front. With _her_? Today is not the day.

“For what?” he says, chin up like he’s hard. Like he’s not fourteen and been taken care of by her _exclusively_ these last four years, like she wasn’t one of the first people to hold him when they brought him home as a baby. She scowls.

“I will _dog walk you_ ,” she tells him, and takes a step forward so that, for once, she’s towering over him. He stares up at her from where he’s perched on a milk crate. “You think these muthafuckers are gonna do anything but laugh when I beat your ass? Get inside.” Cesar hesitates. “ _Now_.”

He’s pouting as he stands, but he heads into the house without any further threats. Ester’s never laid a hand on him, not seriously, and never in the all the time Oscar’s been gone. Beating him up when they were kids doesn’t count; he used to get her back just as good. It’s almost a fond memory.

Adrian laughs, calling after Cesar as he walks up the porch, “It’s not your fault, Lil’ Spooky, even your brother calls her la jefa.”

“Because I am,” she snaps, and shoves at Adrian’s head, “who ran this house when Oscar was gone, huh?”

“That was me, nena,” he says, grabbing her hand and squeezing, a little too tight to be affectionate. “Where you been at?”

“Work,” she says, “I’m not a deadbeat like the rest of you.”

“You wasn’t saying that when Oscar was first locked up,” Santi says, like he has the right to speak to her.

She gives him the nastiest look she can manage. “I was fourteen, pendejo. And don’t fucking speak to me.”

“You still mad, huh?”

“Groping a sixteen year old’s a crime, sabes,” she says, but looks away from Santi as she does. Gives Adrian another chance to defend her, unlike Chucho, who turned and walked out the room when Santi grabbed her ass and asked if she’d had a real man yet. Fucking assholes.

“Oscar hears you was being handsy he’ll kick your ass,” he says, instead of saying Santi shouldn’t be grabbing anybody like that, but Ester’ll take it. She shakes his hand off her and marches inside instead of arguing, Santi’s halfhearted, _Nah, but she liked it_ , doing little to keep her from being pissed off.

The house is already a fucking mess, and she still technically lives here. That’s what happens when nobody but her ever cleans; Oscar wasn’t like this before he got locked up, and she has to wonder at how much brain rot he’s dealing with if this is what the house is going to look like from now on. Clearly it's contagious, if what Ruby told her is true.

“What’s this I hear about you and Monse?” she demands, arms crossed over her chest like she’s a real mom. Cesar’s pouting at the table. God. He better be lying about the two of them.

He looks—guilty, maybe, or uncomfortable at least, when he looks up at her. Says, sounding defensive, “What?”

“Don’t act stupid,” she says, and flings her braid over her shoulder. She’s shit with braids, always has been. Oscar used to give her cute little trencitas up until she was eleven or twelve, made her look like la Chilindrina, sometimes, little pigtails that she still thinks were a good look, even if she’s not in middle school anymore. Part of her thinks she should come home just so she can do something with her hair besides a ponytail. “I know what you said.”

“Then why you asking?”

“ _Cesar_ ,” she says, sharp. He looks away from her, appropriately chagrined. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

She sucks her teeth in. “Okay, fine. I don’t care if it’s true—but if it is, I swear to God.” She tries to look as threatening as possible and knows it only half-works, Cesar glaring back at her like he’s fixing for an argument, too. Strange, to be on the other side of it; she’s used to going back and forth like this with Oscar, but Cesar’s never been much of a trouble maker. Ran around with his friends more often than not, refused to hold a curfew, but then again that was Adrian always telling him to ignore her attempts at parenthood.

She’s seventeen. What does she know?

“Why would you say that to Ruby and Jamal?” she says, when it becomes clear he’s not going to say anything first. His face twists up. He looks so young.

“They shouldn’t be over here,” he says instead of answering. “Now that Oscar’s back…I mean, everyone’s over here all the time.”

Ester hates this. “And Santi likes them young.”

“I didn’t know he grabbed at you,” Cesar says, eyes huge and earnest, and she tries not to swear. She didn’t realize she said it so loud. “I wouldn’t be hanging out with him if—”

“Don’t worry about that,” she says, waving her hand like it could erase the mortification that accompanies her to this day, remembering Santi’s smug grin, “Christ, Cesarito, that don’t mean you gotta be saying nasty shit. You coulda just said she was your little girlfriend and ignored everything else they said.”

“It wasn’t just them,” he says, voice suspiciously low. “Oscar…”

She feels a chill go down her spine. “What the fuck did he say.”

“Have you even talked to him since he got back?” he asks her. Eyebrows all screwed up. She loves this kid. “It’s been almost two weeks.”

“Work’s been busy,” she says, hoping that Cesar still believes all her lies, “and it’s easier to crash with Cleo or Diana, you know, issa better drive.”

“Okay,” he says, looking and sounding bummed out. Ester wishes she were a better sister. She rubs her face.

“You didn’t tell me what he said.”

“I don’t know,” he says, “it’s just weird. I didn’t want him getting any ideas.”

“You think he wants to go after _Monse_?” Ester’s going to be sick. Bad enough that Santi likes jailbait girls, she might actually kill someone if Oscar made a pass at a fourteen year old. She’ll do it.

“He won’t,” Cesar says. He says it real firm, real convinced. Like he’s done all he needs to do to protect her. Ester knows he’s got a thing for Monse, but this feels like more than that.

“Don’t lie to me,” she says, watching him carefully, stomach sinking when his face falls. “Oh, God, you’re not lying.”

“Ester—”

“You’re too _young_ ,” she says, a little despairingly. This is her _baby_ _brother_. “Cesar, for God’s sake, please tell me you used a condom. Oh my God.”

“Ester, ew, don’t say that,” he says, and then immediately after, “I’m not _dumb_.”

“I’m gonna—you’re fourteen! _Fourteen_!”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I’m gonna to throw up,” she says, weakly, and covers her face with both hands, Cesar doing the same. She breathes in deeply. Says, taking her hands away from her face, “I’ll kill Oscar. He tell you to say that shit?”

“The guys were—”

“The _guys_?” she mimics, making her voice go nasally. “I’mma kill Santi first. Chucho too.”

“Not Adrian?” The little shit thinks he’s funny.

“I’m gonna steal his rims,” she says, “and then gut him.” She breathes in deeply. “God. Okay. Go clean your room.”

“What?”

“You think I don’t see this mess? Consider it your punishment for saying that shit, I should smack you.”

“ _This_ is why you finally came home?” he looks betrayed.

“I’m _working_ ,” she repeats, trying to make it feel less like a lie. She and Brian have been at it like rabbits. “How you gonna try to act hard in front of Adrian like that, you’re a _baby_.”

“No I’m not,” he says, pouting, “and it’s not even that messy.”

“It’s cute how you think I’m an idiot,” she says, and points in the direction of his room. “Go. I’m gonna clean this kitchen.”

“Oscar usually—”

“Well he’s not here, is he?” she says, and taps her wrist. “Hurry up. I wanna get out of here soon.”

“It’s your house too,” he says, standing up from the shitty chair he was in, “Oscar’s been looking for you.”

“I know,” she says, trying not to think about how he tracked her down at work and got an escort out. Or about how she climbed out of Diana’s bathroom window before that, scraping her stomach in the process. Brian was confused. “But, ya sabes, I got work. It’s easier.”

“Right,” he says, and his dejected tone makes her feel like shit. “I get it.”

“I’ll take us out to dinner,” she tries, “maybe this weekend. I’m off Saturday.”

“Sure,” he says, and leaves the kitchen instead of letting her continue lying to him. Fuck.

She breathes in deeply again. Looks into the refrigerator, finds it mostly full for once. Heads out front and tells them to get lost or help her clean, throws a chair at Santi when he tells her he’s been looking for a wife like her. Adrian waves him off, then splits, too. Ester hates them.

The kitchen could be worse, Ester figures, even if there are more dishes in the sink than there should be. She’s just finished up washing and drying them when she starts looking for the good cleaning supplies, the ones that foam up and do half the work for her. Gets on her knees and practically crawls into the space underneath the sink. Why do they have so many plastic bags? She could have sworn she had the standard bag of bags all organized before she left.

“I been looking for you,” Oscar says, and Ester hits her head on the bottom of the sink in her rush to stand up. She knows she looks guilty.

“What are you doing here?”

He raises an eyebrow. “This is _my_ house, jefa.”

“I know, I—” She stops. Clears her throat. “Dónde estabas?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, moving around her, putting a bag of groceries down onto the freshly cleaned counter. “I could ask you the same, you know.”

“I been working,” she says, tiredly. Who knew lying could take so much energy?

“Right,” he says, taking fresh produce out of the bag. “They escort everybody outta Home Depot these days?”

“My supervisor’s white,” she says dully, “you know they hate Spics.”

“And you still working there, huh.”

“I’m in the greenhouse,” she spreads her arms, “all we do is landscape or gangbang, right? Maybe I shoulda been a maid.”

“Maids get treated like shit,” he says, sharp. Like he knows shit about that or even retail. Ester almost wants to call him a bum to his face but isn’t about to risk it.

“…True,” she says, when he starts putting—is that starfruit?—the fruit and vegetables away, waves her hand a little when he offers her a container of strawberries, “anyway. I figured I’d. Come see how you guys are doing.”

“You’d know if you was ever here,” he says, unimpressed. Starts slicing up the strawberries, pops a slice into his mouth. Watches her as he chews. It’s uncomfortable. Offers her some again, says, “You sure?” when she refuses.

She remembers what Cesar said. Wants to make a big scene, but, well. Fronting for Adrian and dumbass Santi and then realizing that certain parts of what Ruby told her were true has made her incredibly exhausted. She’s been there an hour already, after a full shift at work, so maybe that’s not surprising, but still. Part of her wants to go crawl into her shitty mattress instead of driving back to Cleo’s.

“You staying for dinner?”

“I shouldn’t.”

He raises his eyebrow. “Why not?”

She says, hating every word coming out of her mouth, “Whatchu say about Monse Finnie?”

His face scrunches up. Looks like Cesar when he does that—makes her want to almost be nice to him. She’s smarter than that though. “What?”

“I know what Cesar got up to with her,” she says, “fourteen’s a little young, don’t you think?”

He looks uncomfortable. “Jefa, I’d rather not talk about that witchu.”

“Oh?” she says, eyebrows up. They all make the same faces. “How come?”

“Ester.”

“This the part where you ask if I’ve given it up to anyone?” This is mortifying. Why is she talking.

He flinches. Says, frowning, “I hear you gotta boyfriend now.”

“Yes,” she says, crisp and regretting every word that’s coming out of her mouth, “just graduated. Going to UCLA. We started dating last fall.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sprinkling a little bit of sugar over the fruit he’s finished slicing. Spears some with a fork, chews thoughtfully. “What’s his name?”

“What you’re _not_ about to do,” she says, like a declaration, “is try and scare my man off.”

“Pretty sure that’s my job, nena,” he says, and points his fork at her. “He treating you right, or do I need to catch another case?”

She flinches. “Don’t joke about that. Whatchu say about Monse, huh, that has Cesar saying all that nasty shit about her?”

“That’s Santi,” he says, “and Chucho, sabes como son. They’re dumbasses. Didn’t think he’d say all’a that, though.”

She scowls. “What did you _say_?”

He puts the fruit down, rolls his eyes like he’s their age and not a grown ass man. “You know she’s his screensaver?”

“What?”

“Monse,” he says, slowly, like she’s stupid. She crosses her arms again. “Grab his phone and that’s the first thing you see.”

“Cute,” she says after a moment, wondering where he’s going with this.

He says, “I didn’t say nothing nasty, a’right? Said she looked cute, wanted to see if he’d get all embarrassed like he used to when they were real little. Got all mad, starting saying she was his girl and shit. Santi and Chucho said a few things, it escalated. Don’t be thinking I went after a fucking fourteen year old.”

“Well, Oscar, what was I _supposed_ to think,” she says, flinging her arms out again and promptly slamming her elbow against the sink—“Ow, _fuck_ , that hurt.” A laugh bubbles up, her arm going numb. “Shit. That hurts so bad.”

“Ay, jefa,” he says, coming close to her and taking her elbow. Checks her over like she’s still little. “Don’t hurt yourself, dumbass. You hit your funny-bone?”

“Yeah, fuck,” she says, still wincing, “it’s fine.”

“Don’t be cussing,” he says, half-heartedly, then lets go of her arm only to wrap her up in a hug. Ester hugs him back as best she can, one arm still held tight to her body like it’ll make the pain go away. He smells the same as she remembers. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she says, her voice muffled against his chest. He’s in his go-to summer outfit—white tank, oversized shorts, buzzcut. “I just been real busy, you know.”

He says, still holding her, “You should stay for dinner,” and for whatever reason she finds herself saying yes.

* * *

That second rumor, though, the one about Cesar getting jumped in. It hits after it’s done, of course, after she and Oscar get into a shouting match about what is and isn’t appropriate for a fourteen year old, after she finally packs the last of her shit and decides she’d rather be homeless then deal with anymore Santo bullshit.

She’s not speaking to either of her brothers, even if she knows she’ll cave sooner rather than later when it comes to Cesar. It’s hard to, when Ester’s still not used to not seeing him every day, not used to her drives to school including Diana instead of her little brother. She forgot her orchid in her room, too. Pissed isn’t quite the right word for how she’s feeling.

Oscar’s an idiot, but she’s been knowing that. Feels like there are bees buzzing through her veins, she’s so on edge all day. Feels eyes on her at all times, whether she’s walking between class or discussing something with her lab partner. It’s like the whole school knows the skeletons the Diaz family hides in their closet, and even if that’s always been the case, the news hasn’t been this fresh in years.

In light of this, and of the knowledge that Ester has on both her brother and Monse, she figures she should probably pay some attention to the girl. She hasn’t spoken to her since before she left for that writing camp, which is her own fault. Between running circles around Oscar over the summer, and moving out at the end of it, well. She’s been trying to avoid anything that has to do with her older sibling, much as part of her wishes desperately that she could just go home. Futons aren’t comfortable after a few days.

Maybe she misses Oscar. She sure as hell misses Cesar.

“Yo, Monse,” she calls to the girl, about to walk off school property, for once without either of her little shadows trailing her. Or that new girl they’re friends with—Olivia. The one with the bad Spanish. “Where you headed, girl?”

Monse looks surprised to see her. “Home. You?”

“Same,” she says, and then flashes her keys at her, along with as nice a smile as she can manage. Cesar’s probably the better looking one out of the three of them, now that she thinks of it, but she’s got the same dimple as Oscar, which bumps her cuteness factor up a few points. Brian seems to agree with her. “You need a ride?”

Monse hesitates. Says, “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Ester says, coming up next to her and steering them towards the residential street she always parks on. School parking is stupid expensive. “I’m headed that way anyway.”

“Diana doesn’t live anywhere near me,” Monse says, seeing right through her. Doesn’t much matter to Ester, getting caught in a lie. She only ever needs her brothers to believe her.

“Yeah, well, I might as well,” Ester says, and says nothing else as they climb into her car. She drives an Acura with more miles on it than she likes to think about. The lock on the passenger door has to be manually unlocked, the AC doesn’t work most days, and the week before she had to have Stephan give her a jump to get to work on time. Ester won’t be able to afford a new one until the summer, maybe, and that’s assuming she gets a half-decent financial aid package from whatever school she gets into. She’s still got a few more applications to submit.

Monse throws her stuff to her feet while Ester pops hers into the trunk. She should figure out what she wants to say to her, but sixty seconds isn’t enough time for anything, let alone giving her kid brother’s sort-of (actually, Ester’s not totally sure what their deal is) girlfriend some advice she probably definitely doesn’t want.

Feeling like a counselor, Ester asks, “So how you liking high school?”

She pointedly does not meet Monse’s suspicious gaze.

“It’s alright,” Monse finally admits, “not much different than last year, I guess.”

Ester hums. “That’s what I thought, too. Never found it too hard.”

“You’re pretty smart.”

“What, and you’re not?” Ester says, pulling onto the main street that’ll lead her to Monse’s neck of the woods. “I didn’t get to ask about your writing camp.”

“It was fine,” Monse says, and when Ester spares her a glance she finds her picking her jeans. “Being away from Freeridge…yeah. The camp was cool.”

“Yeah,” Ester says, thinking of how she applied to Riverside, how she feels like she might be stuck in Los Angeles until the day she dies, “I bet. You write a lot?”

“Always,” she says.

Ester breathes in, counts the seconds it takes. Says, “I need to talk to you about Cesar.”

“…what about him?”

“We’ve always been affiliated,” she says, “with the Santos, I mean. You know that already.”

“Yeah,” Monse says, quietly. She sounds hurt. Ester wishes she didn’t have to do this.

“I know what Ruby and Jamal told you,” she says, “about Cesar, and the Santos, and staying away from him.”

“You think they’re wrong too, huh?” Monse sounds so fucking hopeful. She hates this.

“No,” Ester says slowly, sparing Monse a glance and finding her looking—horrified might be a little too strong, but. It’s close. “I think they’re right. I think you should put yourself first.”

“I…”

“This is some real shit,” she says, “and—Monse, honey, I don’t want you getting sucked into it.” She thinks of her mother, injecting what she could and inhaling what she couldn’t. Thinks of how it all started with her father. Thinks of all the Santos lying dead somewhere, shot outside their girls’ houses.

“I’m not going to get hurt.”

“These muthafuckers _don’t care_ ,” Ester says, a little more severe. “They don’t care that you’re fourteen, they don’t care that you don’t like none of the shit they do. You run with Cesar, you put yourself at risk.”

“It’s not too late for him,” Monse insists, “we can still help him, you _know_ that.”

“They jumped him in,” she says, trying to sound comforting and utterly failing. Her tone is too harsh. Angry, even. She winces. “It’s over, honey. They’re not gonna let him go, not for anything.”

“You don’t know that,” Monse says, and as she speaks she gets angrier. “What would you know, anyway? You left them.”

“Can you blame me?” The words taste bitter. “I tried staying gone and kept coming back for Cesar, I didn’t leave ‘til it was too late. He wouldn’t come with me.”

“You could’ve…”

“What? Called CPS? The police? Whatchu think I’ve been doing these last few years, keeping me and Cesar out the way?”

“He’s your brother.” Monse sounds desperate.

Ester swallows. Says, as they pull up in front of the Finnie house, turning to face Monse full on and not liking what she has to say, maybe even less than Monse does; her voice doesn’t even shake: “He’s a Santo.”

* * *

Maybe Ester cried, the night after the Santos got to Cesar the second time, curled up in the bathtub while Cesar slept off some of the pain on her futon. Maybe she cried, too, after getting to Diana’s after Solana’s shitty house party, drunk and sicker than she’d been in ages. She kept thinking of Oscar’s face and how he looked like their mother some days and like their father on others. Of how he’s put his hands on her, not once but twice, in the time since they released him. Of how she believed, for a split second, that he would throw her around the way their father used to threaten, their mother a ragdoll in his grip.

It’s fine. Cesar leaves to stay with Monse, because he can’t stay with her, ends up with Jamal after a while and stays there for what Ester hopes is a the foreseeable future. Good. She deals with school and her friends and getting into Scripps with enough financial aid that she only has to figure out how she’s paying for housing, news she doesn’t get to share with anyone she really wants to until she runs into Cesar at school, her arms around him like it’s been years since they last spoke.

Her own joy doesn’t compare to the expression on her brother’s face. He looks so proud of her, it’s enough to make her weep. She goes home that day feeling—better, somehow. Her brother isn’t on the street, she’s going to college, the truce is still miraculously in place. Things seem okay. Better than okay.

Oscar, of course, manages to take that as an invitation to seek her out. She’s the one who opens the door this time, so she can’t even try to sneak out of the bathroom window again. She stares at him when she finds him there. Hasn’t seen him since he found her at Solana’s party, drunk and ready for a fight.

He’s clearly not impressed. “Your girl here?”

“You know Diana,” she says, “We been friends since we were kids.”

“Don’t mean I like her,” he says, looking petulant. “All your friends is hoodrats.”

“You hang out with _actual_ hoodrats,” Ester says, thinking of all the girls that linger around the Santos likes moths to flame. “Her man’s a Prophet, she don’t sleep around.”

“Uh-huh,” Oscar says, shifting a bit and looking over his shoulder. It’s drizzling out, the first one of February. “Can I come in?”

“No,” she says, and then, when he looks a little thrown, “G, this isn’t my house.”

“Don’t call me G,” he says, “I gotta talk to you.”

“We not talking right now?”

“Ester,” he says, like he’s frustrated.

She purses her mouth. “Go around.”

“What?”

“Backyard,” she says, “this might not be Prophet territory but we’re close. Shouldn’t let the neighbors see you ‘round here.”

“Stephan’s bitch ass gonna come after me?” Oscar’s scowling.

“He’s not that bad,” she says, thinking of how he doesn’t say anything about her living with Diana, and the times he’s given her car a jump, and how he seems to be able to forget that she’s a Diaz. Says, “Meet me in the back.”

She shouldn’t be giving him the chance to talk to her, she knows that. She’s never been good at staying angry at Oscar, though. Not when they were kids, not when it was after their mom split, not now, even if sometimes she wakes up with her heart racing, elbows aching like he’s only just let go of her. She’s doing fine. It’ll be true eventually.

The drizzle is more like rain by the time she cuts through the house, Oscar lingering near the back steps. He watches her carefully as she comes out, stays on the top one so that she’s taller than him for once. It’s a nice change. He looks pathetic, honestly. Tired. Thinner, like before they locked him up. His shoulders are clearly damp from all that water.

She folds her arms. Cocks a hip. “What’re you here for?”

He says, like it pains him, “Jefa. It’s been almost two months since I last seen you.”

“You went longer in the joint,” she says, feels her own heart break at the words. God. She can’t stand herself sometimes.

The only word she can think of, when she catches his expression, is devastation.

“Yeah?” he says, sounding genuinely hurt, “you think that shit was easy?”

She says nothing. Swallows. Has to look away from him, for a second, out over that empty yard, the one she can see from her bedroom window just fine. Doesn’t want look at Oscar and see all that pain reflected on his face, like he’s her mirror or some other dumb shit like that. She’s never much liked poetry.

“Jefa,” he says again, and she looks back at him. How strange, to have to look down, just a bit. Nothing like the way he towered over her, the last time few times she’s seen him. Nothing like the brother who used to chase away nightmares, making shapes on the wall with his hands while she and Cesar giggled, a flashlight between them. “Ester. I’m sorry.”

She takes a deep breath. Smells like grass. Like someone smoking weed a few houses down. Like Oscar’s aftershave, miraculously. Still can’t think of anything to say. Can’t remember the last time he said sorry to her about anything—maybe when they arrested him. Maybe then.

Oscar puts one foot on the bottom step. Reaches out to her, just a little, like he wants to—not grab her, no. Something softer. Hug her, like that first time they saw each other after he got out, when she finally came home, eating carne asada for dinner and then passing out on the couch afterwards, waking up the next morning with a blanket tucked around her carefully. Like she’s still little and thanking him for giving her trencitas. Like none of that bad shit has ever touched them.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have said that. I wouldn’t hurt you like that, okay?” When she looks at his face his eyes are shiny. Mouth pulled into a frown nothing like their mother’s ever was. She can feel her eyes start to sting. “I know the shit he put us through…I know that fucked all of us up. You and me…fuck. We’ve always been a team. Lo sabes.”

“You sounded just like him,” she says. Her voice sounds very far away. The rain starts to fall, harder now. She can feel a trickle form, sliding behind her ear. She thinks of their father grabbing their mother by her hair. Her fragile collarbones. The bruises on Oscar for trying to defend Ester and Cesar, her cheek smarting for getting in her father’s way. “Used to say that shit all the time.”

“I know,” he says, a little desperate now, “fuck, I know. I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have even grabbed you like that, neither time. No one should put their hands on you, ever.”

“They already have,” she says. A few tears slip down her face, hot against her skin. If he calls her out she’s going to lose it. “ _You_ already have.”

His expression breaks. When he reaches for her again she meets him half-way, and then he’s got his arms around her, tight, like if he lets go she might disappear. He tucks his face against her hair, loose even if she can feel it absorbing water faster than it can fall.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, “te lo juro, I didn’t—”

“Shut up,” she says, voice cracking. Everything’s blurry—from the rain, or the crying, well. Doesn’t matter. “Just. Don’t. I don’t wanna talk about it right now.”

“I won’t ever hurt you,” he says, pulling back to look at her. He looks wrecked. “You can come home, okay, I _promise_ , I promise I won’t—”

“You hurt Cesar,” she says. Shaking with it. “He’s my whole fucking heart, Oscar, and you hurt him like—like he was some Santo, just some gangbanger, like he was _dirt_. Oscar,” she says it desperately, her voice breaking, “I can’t come home, I can’t live there without my baby, he’s my baby, okay? Like we were yours, and you—”

She breaks off. Inhales, desperate, words warped by tears and the pain inspired by Oscar’s own distress. She’s sobbing suddenly, uncontrollably, all the tears she didn’t shed while he was in jail bubbling up.

“Ya me lastimaste,” she manages, “you already have, so many fucking times, God, I’m so tired—”

He tucks her face against his neck. Both of them covered in rainwater, tears on their faces. He doesn’t say anything.

“I can’t come home,” she says again, and slowly, slowly, he nods.

* * *

She doesn’t lose her mind during those two weeks where Cesar falls off the map, but it’s a close thing. It’s been a minute since she saw Oscar last. Hasn’t spoken to him since he came by to apologize, both of them crying by the end of it. In retrospect she’s embarrassed about it; she’s not the crier of the family. That’s more Oscar or Cesar, but they’re all so emotional it should be less surprising.

She usually catches him at school, and when two weeks go by like nothing? Ester gets antsy. Calls her brother, gets into a half-hearted argument. Hangs up on him and then feels guilty. She’s losing it. Feels all out of sorts, no matter where she is—at school, or visiting Brian at UCLA, or at work, even. She has Cesar’s birthday present wrapped in her room. She bought him Scripps gear.

Thinking about it makes her lose her breath, and she braces herself on one of the tables near her, covered in tomato plants. Makes her weak, not knowing where Cesar is. He was at Jamal’s for so long but then…the Prophets are relentless. She’s starting to think she should leave Diana’s, soon, crash with Cleo for a few months. She lives closer to the edge of Freeridge, anyway, and it’s not like she’ll need to be close to the school for much longer.

Maybe Ester should have kept a closer eye on him. Fuck, she should have. If he’s dead, or hurt somewhere, or just _gone_ she’ll—

“Oye, I think it’s time you came home,” she hears Oscar say, and she spins around. Freezes. Cesar’s standing next to him, grinning. She feels her jaw drop.

“What…”

“Come on, jefa,” Oscar says, and smiles wide enough that his dimple shows. Same dimple she’s got.

“How you always manage to sneak up on me,” she says, a little shaky, “I be hearing Cesar for miles.”

“No you don’t,” her little brother says, and then, “ _oof_ ,” when she crashes into him, arms tight around him. They stumble a little bit.

“Thank God,” she says into his hair, “I was _so_ worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, _now_ ,” she says, and pulls back to get a good look at him. “Are you really?”

“Yeah.” He grins at her. Heart-melting. She turns her head to look at Oscar, who’s still grinning at them. Feels like the first time in years that the three of them have been reunited in a way that counts.

“C’mon, Ester,” Oscar says, “you got graduation next week anyway. Shouldn’t you be getting outta punk-ass Diana’s hair?”

“There you go,” she says, but finds herself smiling right back, “talking shit like you always do.”

“Don’t be cussing at me,” he says, a reflex, she laughs. "'Sides," he says, and her eyes widen when he continues, "you gotta see how I got that orchid in your room, toda florecida."

“Hijo de—is that what made you come apologize to me in February?” she asks him, arms still around Cesar. Thinking of that flower. “I hadn’t seen you since before the New Year. It always blooms then.”

“You was real drunk that day,” he says, and she frowns. She wasn’t that bad. He says, to Cesar, “I know you can hold your liquor better than her.”

“No I can’t,” he says, at the same time she says the same.

“I wasn’t _that_ drunk,” she says to Oscar, and then to Cesar, “you shouldn’t be drinking anyway. You’re only f—wait, I still have your birthday present.”

“It’s okay,” Cesar says, “give it to me later. When you come home. What time do you get off work?”

“Six,” she says.

“Dinner’s at six-thirty,” Oscar says, and her stomach growls. “I know you ain’t been eating right.”

“I’m still mad at you,” she lies. Both her brothers look at her like they know she’s full of shit. Maybe they know her better than she thought. She says to Cesar, her eyes on their big brother, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I hear you tried fighting Oscar,” he says instead of answering.

“You gotta good left hook,” Oscar says, like an agreement, and rubs his jaw like the memory of Ester trying to beat him to a pulp won’t leave. It fills her with pride.

“Yeah,” she tells him, “you taught me, remember?”

The three of them grin at each other. She can’t help but think that things will be alright. She’s real tired of being proven wrong.

* * *

Diana stops by the second morning after Cesar goes missing. Ester’s sitting on the couch crying, like she has been all night, her nose stuffy and her eyes swollen. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table for her, and she doesn’t bother even pretending she’s going to get up and answer the door. Oscar doesn’t spare her a glance when he walks over to do it anyway.

He’s quiet like he rarely is around her. They argue a lot, sure, but it’s been mostly habit now. She finally moved back in even though she’s supposed to leave for Scripps in August. Something feels right, though, about being home for one last summer. Or it had, until two days before, when Cesar didn’t make it home after school. The last forty-eight hours have been frantic, Oscar driving around Freeridge like a madman, like if he floored it he would find their little brother.

Ester did the same, but her car can’t handle that kind of speed, and soon found herself at Cleo’s place, crying into a throw pillow while Cleo rubbed her back. She’s been crying on and off since then, chewing on her nails and driving herself crazy thinking about what Cesar might be going through. Normally Oscar would tell her to shut up—he’s not good with girls crying, especially when it’s not a problem he can just brick. But he looks like he’s gotten even less sleep than she has, and the house is quiet like it never is. It makes her sick.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says when Oscar opens the door. Ester turns her head. Diana’s not an early riser. It’s not even nine yet. She says, careful, her voice trembling the slightest bit, “I know it’s a bad time, but. As I’m sure you know. My boyfriend’s in jail. And I’m pregnant. And my mom just kicked me out. And I know you don’t really like me, but—”

Oscar takes a step back. Turns to look at Ester with a look on his face that states he’s clearly not in the mood to deal with this. It’s true he doesn’t like Diana, though whether it’s because she’s the reason Ester parties the way she does or because her man is one of the Prophets they arrested a few weeks ago, she’s not sure. But where he might have told her to get lost a few months ago he doesn’t. Walks back towards his room instead, leaves Diana crossing the living room to the couch on her own.

Ester looks at her. She looks—washed out. Tired. A little terrified. Ester says, “Rough week for everyone, huh,” and manages to smile when Diana says, “Girl, let me _tell_ you.”


End file.
